Ruzsky made his way slowly down to the stables. The roof here was in much better condition and he recalled Dmitri once telling him it was the last money his father had agreed to spend on the place.

Ruzsky checked on the horses and then moved down the corridor between the stalls and unlocked the double doors.

The family’s troika and sledge stood before him, exactly as he remembered them. He ran his hand slowly along the solid wood front of the sledge and then leaned over to feel the leather of the forward seat. The woodwork was painted red and gold. The bells which they had attached to it at Christmas hung on the wall, alongside a couple of spare wheels for the troika and an array of leather harnesses. Ruzsky gave one a tug. The leather was still supple.

He turned. Oleg was watching him.

“Still the same,” Ruzsky said.

“Still the same.”

Ruzsky leaned back against the sledge. “Do you remember how Dmitri liked to drive it?” He thought of them all in the back as the horses charged down the hill toward the gates.

“He was a fine horseman, your brother,” Oleg said. “Always was, even as a boy.” He shook his head. “No discipline for learning, but a natural.”

“We should hitch it up and go down to the village.”

“We could do that,” Oleg said, but Ruzsky could sense the hesitation in his voice.

“Well, perhaps we should ride down, anyway.”

Oleg didn’t answer.

“You don’t want to go?”

Oleg avoided his eye.

“What is it? We’re not welcome? Is that it?”

“There are a few bad…” Oleg shook his head. “One or two of the young ones. Some of those who used to be employed at the works.”

“Used to be?”

“Didn’t get on with the new owner.”

Ruzsky stepped away from the sledge. “What new owner?”

“Your father sold the glassworks, Sandro.”

“When?”

“Before the war.”

Ruzsky stared at him. He could scarcely believe it. The employment provided by the factory-and the benevolent way in which the family ran it-had been the bedrock of the social fabric of the entire area.

“I’m told the man was offered the house as well, but did not want it.”

“He was offered the house?”

Oleg was still embarrassed. “So they say.”

“Who was it?”

“From Moscow. It’s all changed, Sandro.”

Ruzsky glanced up at the old muskets along the wall above him. “Have you still got a working rifle?”

Oleg shook his head. “No good to me. My eyes.”

“But you’ve got one?”

“In the house. You never know when the swine will come back.”

“Come on, then, let’s see if we can find ourselves some lunch.”

They walked out into the sunshine and Ruzsky waited by the edge of the house for Oleg to get his rifle. When he returned with his old blue hunting coat, they walked down to the end of the drive and turned onto the path that led up the hill.

Oleg did not ask him why they avoided the much quicker route beside the lake.

They climbed up through the silent pine forest, the snow on the path so thick in places that they were almost stopped in their tracks. They reached a fork, where the path to their left led directly back to the lake and the garden. Ruzsky stopped and took the rifle from his friend and the three bullets that he offered. “Better shoot straight,” the old man said, grinning.

“Why change the habit of a lifetime?” Ruzsky smiled.

“Mmm. Always a fine shot.” Oleg raised a bony finger to the sky. He had taught all three boys to hunt. “The best. You’d have made a fine soldier, better than your brother.”

Ruzsky looked at the sun glinting through the trees. It was much warmer today.

They walked on and stopped in a clearing a hundred yards farther up. Oleg was short of breath as they looked back down toward the house. Ruzsky pushed a bullet into the breech and closed the bolt.

They waited.

The forest was silent.

“A hare would do,” Ruzsky said.

He walked on, cresting the hill and emerging into the larger clearing where his father had helped the estate workers build the tree house.

Ruzsky had secretly hoped that this remnant of their childhood, at least, had survived, and his disappointment was unexpectedly bitter when he saw that it had gone. There were a few fallen pieces of rotting wood, but nothing more.

He rested the rifle on his shoulder.

“What happened to the dogs, Oleg?”

The old man shook his head.

Ruzsky sighed deeply. He saw movement on the other side of the clearing. “Deer,” he whispered.

Ruzsky and Oleg stalked the deer for an hour before they got a clear shot. Ruzsky took it through the heart.

Oleg went back to get one of the horses to drag it home and Ruzsky hunted on alone, roaming through the silent forest, the sun upon his face. An hour or more later, he returned to the tree house clearing, sweating from the exertion. He wiped his brow and looked around him.

The only sound was the drip of melting snow falling from the pines.

Ruzsky walked to the far side of the clearing and then back down the path. He stopped a few yards short of the point at which he knew he would get his first glimpse of the house.

Past and present merged, just as they had in the corridor last night. It was not memory that overpowered him, but the pervasive sense that he was rooted in a place and time that he had never left.

He began to walk faster and then broke into a run, the sun still bright above him, the house dancing through the trees. Ruzsky took the right-hand fork, running hard through thick snow.

He reached the garden, breathing heavily. Maria stood on the veranda. Ten yards from the jetty, he stopped. He could see the boat. He could see the island.

Ruzsky took another step, his feet leaden. He looked at the ice. He turned and walked up the slope, toward the line of trees.

Ruzsky found himself slowing down again, as if trying to force his way against an invisible wind. He could see the stone.

He pushed his legs forward until he was standing in front of it, his head bent. He read the name, in gold, and saw the small mound of snow and the dead flowers in the vase.

Ilya Nikolaevich Ruzsky

7.6.1882-3.4.1889

Beloved son

Ruzsky knelt and prayed. He had an image of his brother’s impish smile and recalled the way they had indulged him and fought for the right to be his protector in any battle.

He remembered Ilusha’s kindness at Christmas and the thoughtful way in which he would construct his own presents for his brothers with the help of Oleg or one of the other servants.

Ruzsky fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a tiny wooden snuff box that Ilusha had made for him over that last winter. He kissed it once, rubbed his thumb across its smooth ebony top, and then slipped it back into his pocket.

He stood, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.

He leaned down and touched the gravestone.

“I miss you.” Ruzsky began to weep gently, hanging his head. “Oh God, how I miss you.”

He waited until the tears had stopped and then wiped his eyes once more and turned around. He walked back toward the house. Maria watched him, but he did not acknowledge her.

He crossed the veranda, stepped into the drawing room, and then walked up to Ilusha’s room on the floor above.

He climbed onto Ilusha’s bed by the window and curled into a ball.